


Jasmine

by Elysium-fic (RCD_Anon)



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Darkfic, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-02
Updated: 2010-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RCD_Anon/pseuds/Elysium-fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for 's <a href="http://peopleofthedas.dreamwidth.org/57067.html">"Hotel California" prompt</a> over at <a href="http://peopleofthedas.dreamwidth.org">People Of Thedas</a>.</p><p>After the death of the Warden during the fight against the archdemon, King Alistair Theirin finds forgetfulness with the cruel Orlesian Warden-Commander.</p><p>Thanks to <a href="http://twist-shimmy.dreamwidth.org">twist_shimmy</a> for the lightning beta!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jasmine

He had put himself here.

Sometimes it was hard to remember that, because so often in his life, he found himself places he never chose to go. Like the monastery.

Or the gates of Denerim.

He shouldn't have let her leave him behind. But it seemed at the time as though he'd done nothing but thwart her ever since the Landsmeet. He beheaded Loghain without even consulting her, then seized the throne right out from under Anora. Then he broke things off with her, because she was an elf and a mage and a Grey Warden, and then he refused her when she came to him telling him that Morrigan had a way to keep them from dying, if only he'd comply one last time.

He should have known what she intended when she commanded him to remain behind. He should have thwarted her one last time and accompanied her to the top of that tower. He should have taken that blow.

He didn't. And now she was gone and he was alone, sitting on a throne he never really wanted.

He'd been king for six months when he met Jasmine Andras, the new Warden-Commander of Vigil's Keep. Another elf, Orlesian, possessed of those same elegantly-pointed, exquisitely sensitive ears, like the pair whose tips he had once loved to nibble. She was older, harder, more experienced, more bitter. But still undeniably lovely, with the same exotic elven bone-structure that gave her a beauty keener than the sharpest blade. Eyes that sparkled like pale gems and power pouring off her in waves that only his templar-attuned senses could detect.

They might have been sisters, the resemblance was so uncannily close.

It was months before he found an excuse to summon her to the palace in Denerim. By then, he'd been on the throne for over a year. He didn't even remember what the pretense was, only that he had to see her again, to see if that remarkable similarity had all been a figment of his aggrieved imagination.

It hadn't.

He'd come to her bedchamber that first night she arrived in the palace and she hadn't turned him away. Instead, with a wicked smile that lacked anything resembling the tenderness he'd become accustomed to seeing on another finely-featured face, she'd silently admitted him and closed the door.

Next thing he knew, he was on the floor, before he could even think to smite her. On the floor, and paralyzed. The rules were simple, she told him, stripping off her robes and straddling his chest, engulfing him in the scent of flowers and musk. If he was going to come to her chamber like a supplicant pleading for a morsel, he would be treated as such. He would not be king, but a lowly beggar at her mercy.

She hadn't asked him if he agreed, or offered him any sort of codeword to stop the game. She simply released the spell of paralysis she'd laid upon him and stood, gesturing to the door as though inviting him to use it.

He hadn't.

He put himself there, at her mercy. She allowed him freedom only long enough to strip, and then she paralyzed him upon the bed, his cock standing up from his body begging attention. She rode him with quick, impersonal efficiency, the fingers of one hand pinching her breast while the other frigged herself almost casually until she shuddered around him. By then, he was practically weeping with the need for his own release, but something about the paralysis spell prevented it, as it prevented him crying out in pleasure... or pain.

She offered both in abundance that night. Fire and ice and lightning all blossomed from her fingertips until his skin and nerves were seared. Her mouth drew one release after another from him, while her fingers probed and spread him. And then there was more flame, more lightning, more cold. With the pain came forgetfulness, and perhaps absolution.

His excuses for summoning her to Denerim, or traveling to Vigil's Keep, became more frequent. No one thought anything of it, as he was a Grey Warden himself and professed the need to keep a close relationship with the Wardens, to prevent the sort of chaos and destruction that had overrun Ferelden during Loghain's reign. He married some arl's daughter and begat an heir mercifully quickly and thence proceeded to ignore the girl. His mind was not in his wife's bed, but in _hers_.

She was mad.

He hadn't realized that at first, for she was composed and far from raving. In matters of sex, he'd interpreted the wicked gleam in her eyes to be mischief, a touch of erotic fun. But no, she was insane, a warped, twisted soul devoid of human compassion. Utterly without pity, completely ruthless and amoral. She took pleasure in cruelty, and it only got worse when she learned he had trained as a templar. She made him bleed, made him writhe, sent jolts of torment along his nerves, made his skin sizzle with flame until he lost consciousness from the pain, then she healed it after he awoke in agony.

If he complained, she reminded him that he was welcome to leave. He never did. He could walk away, he knew, but he'd never be free.

He had put himself there, and there he would remain.

After the pain came the pleasure, until his nerves weren't sure which was which. The more she tortured him, the freer he felt. Usually she rode him until he came so hard it hurt. On rare occasions she even let him pin her to the bed, force himself into her exquisitely tight, wet sheath, let him bend her over and drive deep into her ass, exacting recompense for the ordeal she put him through, let him add to her collection of bruises and scars the way she added to his.

They had been carrying on for some years when one night she pulled out a vial of lyrium, telling him it enhanced sensation. She rubbed it over his body and then sent a wave of flame over his skin. Then she brought forth a dagger, enchanted with an ice spell, and began cutting. His guard had long since been informed that they were never to intrude when he was with her, no matter what they heard, and so she had stopped silencing him. He shrieked until blood vessels burst in his eyes and his voice gave out, and she simply laughed. Then she took him into her mouth and brought him with the agony still riding his nerves. He lay there that night unable to sleep, weeping in pain, but she never healed him until the morning.

When he left Vigil's Keep that time, he stole the rest of her lyrium. By the time she came to Denerim again, he was addicted. He supposed it was inevitable, and strangely fitting. She became his source, bringing a supply of lyrium each time he summoned her to the palace.

If the pain and pleasure she gave him had helped him forget, the lyrium helped him even more. It brought real forgetfulness, not merely the temporary illusion of it.

In some distant part of his mind, he wondered if he'd be too lyrium-addled by the time his Calling came to find his way to the Deep Roads. When he mentioned that, something resembling emotion crossed her face for the first time since he'd known her.

She would be gone long before his time came. She had perhaps ten years remaining to her, and he had at least another twenty. What would he do, she asked, when she was gone?

"Go mad," he answered, taking the vial she held from her and emptying it in a gulp.

He had put himself here, in this prison that masqueraded as a palace, in this seat of power that made him a slave. Every choice he had made had brought him to this point. The torment he suffered was of his own making, not hers. She simply gave it physical form.

He wouldn't wait for the lyrium to claim him or for his Calling, he decided that night. When she went to the Deep Roads, he would follow.

Ten years, he thought blissfully as his body seized and convulsed, her electricity flashing through him. Ten more years and he would be free.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Dragon Age: Origins and associated content belong to EA and Bioware. I am making no money from their use.**


End file.
